This City Never Sleeps
by Lisp
Summary: It isn't the dark they should be afraid of - it's the monsters living in it. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**This City Never Sleeps  
**Lisp.

**One.**

* * *

_Oh, don't go losing sleep  
Scared of shadows.  
- _Vance Joy.

* * *

It's a normal night like any other when she first sees him.

She's walking down the alleyway a little after midnight, her stride strong and confident. The sky may have darkened past the bruised purple tint of the day's end, but she has her wits about her, so what is there to be worried about? Her papa would completely disagree with what she's doing – _good_. She doesn't want his approval. She doesn't want anyone's. Who in Death City has the right to tell her, Maka Albarn, when it's time to lock her doors and windows and go inside for the night?

It's all just lies and rumours anyway, right? None of it is actually true. A little pinch of folklore, a dash of mystery and one good ghost story, and the civilians in her town are scared out of their wits. It's been like this since she can remember – the constant paranoia about something as silly and trivial as the dark.

"_There's something living in it, Maka_._" _Her friends used to tell her, back when they were all young and foolish. _"The dark moves. There are things out there, scary things. We lock our doors and they stay out. But don't leave them open, Maka! Don't go outside! Or you know what will happen? They'll eat you up!"_

Yes, she's heard the stories, Maka thinks as she steps over an overturned trash can. She knows what people think about the night. They're superstitious and scared, and it's pathetic. All of this fear, this tight security and cold disapproval of the late hours – all because of one little myth wrapped in a thin blanket of half-truths.

Maka is almost at her apartment at this point, a slight spring in her step. Nobody says anything to her; she passes no-one on the street. Of course – everyone is asleep for the night, safe in their beds. They're really missing out, because Death City is beautiful at night. The moon is always a sickle (a source for more rumours) and some nights it almost appears to be leering down at the town, as if taunting it over its silly little frights. But Maka Albarn isn't like the other people in Death City. She doesn't feel the moon's contemptuous grin on her back. She likes to explore new things; things that her books can describe but can't quite explain, and when better to adventure around than at night, when nobody is there to stop you?

There is the colourful building in which she lives. With a grin – _I've survived the night once again, lucky me – _she reaches into the pocket of her dark tailed jacket, groping around in the material to find her keys. She can just hear the _jangle_ that betrays the reward of her quest when she sees it.

It's just a flicker, a little movement in the shadows that could easily be passed off as a trick of the light. Except there _is_ no light apart from the glow of the moon. No clouds are rolling over the sky tonight. Maka starts, staring over at the spot for a second. It had been right behind that disused streetlamp, a flash of brightness, of white. The post itself remains still and dormant under her scrutiny – the lamps are never lit because nobody is out to need them. She rubs her eyes for a moment, ignoring the hair that stands up on the back of her neck. It's almost one in the morning on a Saturday, and she'd had an exam on Friday. It's only natural that she's tired.

_I must be seeing things,_ she decides firmly, shaking her head slightly as if that will clear the weird image away. But she can't get over the niggling feeling that she _hadn't_ imagined it, that there had been something behind the post. But what? An animal, maybe? It could have been a bird, but it seems too late for birds to be stirring. Even the wildlife is scared of the dark in this town.

Maka rubs her eyes again angrily, slapping herself on the cheek and muttering, "I'm letting all of the stupid stories get to me. There's nothing there. I'm not afraid of the dark."

She firmly pushes her key into the door lock, not turning around even once. If she did, she might see more, and she doesn't want to psych herself out of her little night-time adventures just because her eyes don't want to work.

At least, that's what she tells herself. But as she's about to enter the apartment complex, she can't help it. Something in her brain is telling her to turn, and her feet seem only too willing to comply. Her heart is the only thing fighting, and she knows that it is because she can't concentrate over the hammering thumps it's giving. She's trembling a little, but convinces herself that it's just because it's cold out here. And really, it is – in the middle of the Nevada desert at night, a blanket never goes spare. She makes sure her eyes are shut while she spins, not allowing herself to think twice about what might be out there, and then she's forcing her lids open - !

Nothing.

She's filled with a weird mix of elation and disappointment at the sight before her. The street is empty. The cobblestones on the footpath do not stir with creeping shadows. Nothing sinister leaps out at her from the bushes situated on the opposite side of the road. There are no monsters slinking towards her. And that's a good thing, right? Hell yes it is; this means that she's still sane, she's not becoming another paranoid inhabitant of Death City. She doesn't believe in the demons, and they aren't there. But another part of her, the adventurous part, is slightly crestfallen. If there had just been something abnormal, something interesting to see, maybe she could find something exciting. All of her wanderings in the midnight hours have been used to not only further her knowledge on the City's nooks and crannies – she's been trying to find something. Something to explain the rumours, the whispers, the superstitions. Why is everyone so scared when there's clearly nothing there? If she could just find a material presence, and then prove to the city's dwellers that it wasn't some plaguing demon, could they claim back the night? Would they stop being such cowards? She doesn't know, but she wants to find out. And at the rate she's going, she might not ever find it. So she feels like the empty street is a letdown, somehow.

She's just turned back around when it happens. It's even quicker than last time, and leaves her with no time to catch her breath or deliberate on whether she should look or not. In one fluid movement, with no flickering or hesitation, the streetlamp she'd been scrutinising _turns on_.

Maka gasps, her eyes glued to the post. Warm, golden light seeps from it and the rust and abandonment of its neglected years is no longer visible. It looks as wonderfully new as possible and glows healthily, lighting up a small section of street. Although it really isn't _that_ bright, Maka is so used to the sombre darkness of the night that this sudden addition to the moon's coverage is overwhelming to her eyes. She closes her lids for a good three seconds, holding her breath, and then flicks them back open.

The light is still on. She's not imagining it. She even pinches herself to make sure.

Why is the light on? Who could have turned it on in the short amount of time that she hadn't been looking? Each lamppost had to be manually turned on – she remembers asking her Papa about it once, back when things were different and they were still a 'family.' There's no way anything could have hit the switch, because it was _two seconds_, she swears . . .

Besides, there had been no hesitation in the illumination. One moment, it had been dark, the next it had been light. Streetlamps usually took a few seconds to power up as the electricity flowed through the circuits, like any other high-power bulb. So what was going on here? She clutches the long sleeves of her jacket in her small hands, her gaze unable to leave the light. It draws her to it like a moth, and she has to blink once her eyes begin to water. She needs to look away and go inside – if something _did_ turn that light on, it will still be out here, right?

But alas, as far as she can tell, it's just her and the light. Maybe the switch was shorting? Maka reassures herself that there's a mundane reason behind the lighting issue; most likely the fact that she's so tired.

Her retinas are still stinging slightly when a great gust of wind blows through the bushes. She inhales sharply, fear kicking in like a swift blow to her stomach. The night is clear. The light and the wind are too much for her. She's been so excited to find something out of the ordinary, and now that it's here she's trembling with fright. _Pathetic,_ she scolds herself, but she's still far too eager to push open the door to the apartment complex and escape the night's oddities. Once the heavy wooden door shuts behind her, she sags slightly, letting her breath catch up. She hadn't even realised she'd been holding it. How weak. Was she really that nervous in those few seconds? One electrical wiring short and she's out for the count.

Maka climbs the stairs wearily, her hand tight on the rail to stop her slumping. Sure, it's a weekend and that was why she's out wandering, but she really shouldn't have stayed out so late. She'll fall asleep before she even reaches the right floor at this rate. Then again, her nerves are still jittery_. It's going to be a long night of peeking out of the curtains and tightening my fists on the bedcovers_, she thinks drily.

There it is. Number 42. She slots the wrong key into the lock twice and jumps when the floor gives a creak under her weight, chastising herself immediately afterwards. What is she, five? Finally the door swings open and Maka sighs in relief, letting her shoulder-bag drop on the ground as she toes it closed once more. Her kitchenette light is still on, bathing the apartment in a warm and healthy glow. With a sigh of relief she kicks off her shoes and carries them into her room. While rifling through her drawers for pyjamas, an idea occurs to her. She should check whether the street is still illuminated by that single streetlamp. She doesn't want to look, but she knows she should. The only way to get herself to calm down will be to make sure she's just imagining things. Maka decides resolutely that she'll have a hot shower, get changed and then have a look once she's feeling more rational and less jumpy.

One blissful ten-minute shower later, she's towelling off her hair and yawning. Sleep is about ready to overcome her, and the closer her digital clock ticks towards two a.m., the less surprised she is. She really needs to rest; it's just a good thing she isn't rostered on for her part-time job at the bookstore tomorrow. She loves the building to pieces – literally, it's that old – but after tonight she shudders at the concept of attending work. Pulling almost 'all-nighters' after school followed by scouting around Death City's parks after dark doesn't exactly set her up for stock-take duties. All she really wants to do right now is slip under the warm sheets of her bed and let her head hit the pillow.

There are those incessant nagging voices in her brain, though, telling her to _look, LOOK!_ She can't help it. Maka sighs irritably and, very slowly and cautiously, twitches aside the curtain in her room; making sure to stay out of sight should there be any horrible paranormal anomaly on the street below.

The first thing she notices is the lamp. It's out.

The roads are dark and all Maka can see are the light reflections of litter from the moon's sneering luminescence. She blinks hard, and everything stays the same. Dark and still. Nothing is unsettling or wrong, just its usual boring self.

Until the lamp jumps to light again. It's like it was waiting for her the whole time, because it flashes while her eyes are trained on it. Only for a few seconds this time, not staying on like it did before. This solidifies the theory of faulty wiring, but Maka feels her skin crawl with sudden goosebumps. It had flicked on for her. Who else would it be lighting up the street for, because who else was awake and looking at quarter-to-two?

It jumps to life and out once more, and she holds her breath, her nose pressed against the window and all thoughts of keeping hidden completely banished from her mind.

On. Off.

Wait. No. Impossible.

Her already-held breath catches in her throat and then her hands fall off of the window. She sits in paralysis, staring down at the footpath underneath the lamp with wide eyes, her mouth forming a silent pink 'O.' There's no way. How could – she would have seen - !

There's a man standing there. Right under the patch of light cast by the post. Maka takes in the sight of him, trembling suddenly for reasons unknown. He'd just _appeared_ there, in the space of two seconds while light was playing around. It is on properly now, showing him plainly to her.

A tall yet youthful-looking man, probably her age or a little older, is leaning against the post with his hands in his pockets. He has on a white jacket over a white shirt, and she can see a tie hanging loosely from his neck. He appears to be wearing black skinny jeans as well as pale sneakers. Overall, a very mundane outfit. But . . . his _hair._ It is bright white and in a complete state of disarray. Yet it looks _organised,_ as if the spikes are purposefully placed. Maka has never _seen_ hair like this before. Sure, she's seen bleached unhealthy locks in fashion magazines – not hers, of course, but ones in the library – and on the television, but not in real life. This hair looks so real and soft and regular, but it's far too snowy. Her heart stammers at this odd boy's appearance. What the _Hell _is he doing out under that light at this time of night? She goes to make a move, do something, but she can't. She's frozen.

And then the boy looks up. Straight up to her window. Straight up at her. She catches a view of his eyes, and then the goosebumps are standing up even further than before and she's almost shivering. He seems to be staring _directly at her_, as if he can see exactly what she looks like despite being on the sixth floor. And that's not even including the ground level. Maka doesn't know whether to move away to stop his staring, or if moving will make him _see_ her if he hasn't already. She can feel her pulse in her hands and her lower lip is trembling. This silent stranger – is he . . . one of them? One of the legends, the scary stories she's been told since childhood? Are they . . .

Could it be real?

He appears to be grinning now, and she gulps, trying not to hyperventilate. His teeth. Oh God. It may be a trick of the light, but from where she is, it appears that his teeth are _sharp_. She doesn't know how she could possibly see that detail from the distance she is, but maybe adrenaline is kicking in. She needs to get away now, before he sees her, before he comes up here and tries to eat her heart, or worse, her soul - !

And as Maka stares down at him, her eyes wide, he seems to almost laugh. A slim-fingered right hand lifts from his side and he . . . waves. A lazy little motion of his wrist, giving her a slight wave with that razor-sharp grin. She gasps, her whole body going still.

And then the light flickers off again for a second.

When it turns back on, he is no longer there.

Maka does not sleep at all that night.

* * *

**_A/N: I don't own Soul Eater or Vance Joy's 'Emmylou.' _**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This chapter contains swearing and sexual references. I do not own Soul Eater._

**This City Never Sleeps  
**Lisp.

* * *

**Two.**

* * *

She can't believe what this is turning her into. Just two nights ago she was a fearless nightwalker, a sane and intelligent young woman unprejudiced by the fear and cowardice plaguing the rest of the town. And what is she now? A stupid girl cowering in the corner, afraid of the monsters under the bed.

"Up reading again last night, Maka?" her boss asks as she lifts two encyclopaedias onto a high shelf. Normally they would require both hands and a lot of muscle to lift _one_ to that height, let alone the fact that the woman juggling them is currently four months pregnant, but Maka knows better than to question the inhuman strength of Marie Mjólnir. This is the same woman who lifted the front end of a car three months ago to free the tail of a stray cat, and while this goodness in her heart is inspiring, it can just as quickly turn to wrath whenever her strength as a female is called into question.

Maka ducks her head so as to not make eye contact; she's never been a good liar. "Yes, I . . . had some case studies to look over and I lost track of time." The words taste false in her mouth and her hands fidget as she tries to sound convincing, but it apparently does the trick as the honey-blonde woman does no more than give her a light laugh and reprimand before going back to lifting her incredible weights with ease.

It is a good thing she is so occupied, leaving Maka alone on the register – otherwise she might see just how badly the younger woman's hands are shaking, or the way she bites her lip. The truth is she had been far from doing work for her classes or any such trivial pursuit last night. She had been too preoccupied with skimming over Death City's town archives on her old laptop, trying to find out just where the rumours of the dark had begun.

Well, that and occasionally twitching aside the curtains to assuage her ever-plaguing fears. No matter what she does, it feels like those eyes are trained on her again, watching her every move.

_Honestly_, she chides herself again as her thoughts begin to drift back towards that white-haired stranger. Maka can already feel goosebumps rising to stand at attention on her arms when she replays the scene in her mind, the same way she has done so many times over the last two days. The unnatural glow of his hair, the sharpness of his teeth gleaming like rows of serrated chainsaw blades awaiting purchase on her smooth, unblemished skin. What he is, she isn't sure; she doesn't want to jump to the conclusion that he is a _demon_ or _monster_ like the idiotic folklore describe. But there is something raw about him, something so alien that she cannot simply occupy her thoughts with happy images until he disappears altogether among the sea of faces she has seen and since forgotten.

He makes her curious. It's an all-consuming, skin-itching kind of curiosity, and it is riddled with the pockmarks of fear and suspicion and doubt, but it is strong all the same. She wants at the same time to study him and never see him again. All this time she's been spending trying to figure out the source behind Death City's heavy paranoia, but never once has she allowed herself to believe that it may be justifiable.

This stranger has thrown a spanner in the works, and knocked out more than a few crucial screws upon collision. Maka can feel something instinctive inside her, the force that summons the goosebumps and keeps her eyes wide open late at night, telling her that she was lucky to escape the last encounter with her life and to _run away fast._ She feels like a rabbit upon scenting a wild hunting dog. And yet she wants to _know_. It's always been her curse. She wants to, needs to see what he is and discover whether he is connected to this town's oddities. She has to ask why he is apparently roaming the streets at a time where it is usually she alone stalking along the cobblestones. She just has to find out, but at the same time she hopes never to lay eyes on him again.

Curiosity killed the cat, and everything inside her is telling her not to bait the dog and allow him another chance at her. But still . . .

"Anybody in there?" a voice rings out teasingly as a hand waves before her eyes. Maka blinks twice, hard, and grabs the heavy tome before her as a snap instinct. She raises wary eyes, already feeling the telltale jolt in her chest from being surprised at such a time, until she notices who her apparent assailant is. It takes all she has in her not to groan out loud or sigh and walk away.

"Oh, hello," she says instead to the customer – or _browser_, depending on his motives today – and busies herself with sorting through order forms to keep her hands and eyes busy. She knows if she gives him any attention whatsoever he will gain the wrong impression yet again and jump on the trail like a dog with a bone, and she doesn't have the energy to deal with his irritating attempts at flattery and sweet-talking today. She just hasn't had enough sleep, and frankly, he's insufferable enough as it is. "Sorry, I was spacing out."

"I could see – your head was up in the clouds. At least the sun on your face makes it shine brighter," Noah says with a smirk, picking up a book on the counter and pretending to be interested in the cover. He toys with it slowly, occasionally glancing up at her with that infuriating little half-smile. It's as if he's expecting her to bend over backwards and swoon.

Instead she says blankly, "Unfortunately the rays sent me blind while I was up there, so there aren't really any perks. Then again, I'd be the first to know if it rained." She wishes Marie would come back to the counter so she might have an excuse to duck back to the shelves behind the desk, but by the sounds of things she will have no such luck.

Noah laughs loudly as if she has just said the joke of the century. "You're too much, Maka," he says in a smooth voice, changing his stance to lean dominantly on the wooden desk as she walks past briskly to return a tome to its correct shelf. "I like a girl with a sense of humour."

That's bullshit, of course. She's often told by her friends that there isn't one humourous bone in her body – which she corrects, because technically she has a _humerus_ in both arms – and Noah doesn't care whether she can make a good joke or not. She knows the reason he comes down here day after day to try and charm or impress her. He wants to add her to his Collection, like he does all the girls in Death City. She remains one of the few females he hadn't managed to persuade into going on a date with him during high school, and although it's been a year and a half since she graduated, he's still trying to complete his list. She isn't falling for it in the slightest; she's never liked guys like Noah and anyway, she doesn't date.

Therefore if he can succeed to claim her, she will be the prize jewel of his Collection, worth boasting about to everyone who's anyone around this part of the city.

Maka sucks back a sharp retort as he tries and fails yet again to wow her with yet another bad pick-up line and merely gives him an extremely thin-lipped and forced smile before continuing her work. She wants nothing more than to be able to go home; he's doubtless finished work at wherever he spends his time during the day – he's told her before but she doesn't care enough to remember the place – and that means he'll stick around as long as possible if it means he has a shot at snagging her.

Which he doesn't, but that is beside the point.

She is momentarily saved by a small line of customers, giving her an excuse to engage in conversation with them and give Noah the cold shoulder. However, he merely saunters over to a self-help section and fakes interest in other things until she is free again. _How appropriate that section is for you_, she thinks ungenerously as she counts change. _Maybe you can find a guide on how to sense when a girl is completely uninterested in you._

"Do you think you could give me a price check on this one, beautiful?" he asks with a grin as he places his own choice on the counter after the line dies down. It's a fantasy novel – _The Fellowship Of The Ring_. It briefly flits through her mind that someone as petty as him shouldn't even be allowed to touch such a brilliant book before she performs the inquiry with a remote expression, as demure as possible. She can see the price tag immediately before the book at the section and grounds her teeth.

"The price is written on the stand. Try to be more observant next time," she mutters, her polite persona slipping.

"Ah, so it is. I guess I just wanted to have a reason to talk to you," he says, aiming for the 'confident on the surface' tactic.

She wants to reach over the counter and hit the man square in the face with the book to make him leave her alone. However, she is a pushover by nature and therefore unable to do anything of the sort and it is doubtful that this will help her to stay employed. Marie probably wouldn't say anything because she knows of the young woman's frustration, but there is a limit to how far she can test her friendship with her boss.

So she turns around to attempt cooling her now-searing while straightening a display and manages, "I would appreciate if you didn't try to get my attention while I'm trying to work."

"'_Try_' to get your attention? Please. Your eyes are glued to me," he mocks with a sleazy grin, before winking. "Well, no worries. I'll wait until after you finish and walk you home, and then you'll get a chance to have something other than your _eyes_ on me. As prudish as you try to seem, I can sense that desire burning in you. Why deny it when it could give _both_ of us so much pleasure?"

That's it. Burning point.

Job or no job, this ends here – with his dead body on the floor and the bloodied spine of the murder weapon in her hand, preferably. She can't take it anymore; this is sexual assault and she feels disgusted, and moreover _threatened._ He's going to wait for her to finish her shift whether she likes it or not unless she ends his delusions and puts him in his place now.

However, before she can so much as turn around, she is cut off by a definitely _male_ voice saying sharply, "That's enough. Back off, man."

Noah turns incredulously. "_Excuse me?_ This doesn't concern you, dude, so why don't you take your own advice and piss off?"

Maka freezes as she listens to the sudden challenge. She doesn't twist to see her saviour for fear of getting involved in the argument her common sense is screaming will break out, but there's something in the newcomer's voice that fills her with a sudden desire to glimpse his appearance. His voice is low but the tone is hard to describe – it's like he has a rough voice loosely coated by something smooth and alluring. She settles for clenching her fists and awaiting a sign that a fist fight may break out. The newcomer will most likely back off first but she knows enough of Noah to fear his actions. He is not usually violent, preferring underhand moves and others doing his dirty work, but when his Collection is threatened to his face he tends to get aggressive. Seeing as he is currently under the belief that she may actually be added to his list by the end of the night, she is expecting the worst and therefore planning how she may resolve the issue before it gets out of hand and her boss has to get involved or outside action is taken.

Just because she can't lift two enormous encyclopaedias by herself and she is technically small for her size, that does not mean she is incapable of completely _destroying _an opponent if they attack her without adequate training. Being trained in karate and Tai Kwon Do for five and a half years gives her the necessary skill to kick ass when she is in danger.

One thought of the white haired stranger quickly crushes the sudden burst of confidence.

Her attention is once again snared when the newcomer scoffs. "Come on," he says sharply. "She clearly isn't interested in you and you're making yourself look pathetic; also, threatening to wait for her to finish work before '_escorting'_ her home is a violation of her security and privacy bordering on abuse. So how about you leave her alone and get lost, okay?"

"_She and I_ are talking about our own personal relationship, and I have a right to be a customer in here for however long I want!"

"You call this a relationship, having to resort to sweet talking her into letting you walk her home? And nobody here really believes you're intelligent enough to read any of the books in this store besides those in the kiddie section."

There is a beat of silence in which even the musty books on the shelves hold their breath, fearful of stirring dust into the already-clouded air, before Noah begins to loudly and abusively swear at Maka's unidentified saviour. She draws in a deep breath as she listens to the man's witty retorts to the barbed and vulgar insults thrown at him, counting to ten mentally in her mind. There are customers here and Marie will have to get involved soon. Strong or not, she _is_ pregnant and already under stress. So, it looks like she will have to resolve this issue herself, running low on sleep and heavily armed with the multitude of books surrounding her.

_Those poor bastards._

She whirls around in one rapid motion, her hand already clutching the heaviest and therefore most deadly work she can get to, and slams it heavily on the counter. The customers in the store, already interested or aggravated by Noah's loud vulgarity, flinch. Maka sets what she knows is a burning green glare on the tattoo-riddled and pierced man, and he instinctively takes a step back.

"_How dare you_," she says with every word practically accompanied by the hot fires of her rage, "talk about me like that, while I stand here no less! In case you couldn't get it through your _thick_ skull, I'm _not _interested in you! I never have been, and I am _not_ interested in becoming another name on your petty, idiotic list! Now, if you don't leave by your own accord, I'll just get on the phone to my father as the Chief of Police and see what he thinks about all this. Or, better yet, my boss can call in her husband – the Division Coroner!"

Noah goes an odd pasty colour, venomous retorts bubbling up in his mouth, but the fierce ferocity of her glare pushes his words back until they are jammed in his throat. As a habit he looks around for his usual gang of cronies to support him, but even his most faithful little follower, Gopher, isn't with him today. It's only him and a store full of disgusted shoppers. He splutters twice before finally pointing a finger at her.

"Fine, you common _woman!_ You aren't even worth being Collected!" he says as strongly as he can muster with his increasing embarrassment. A light door-trill away, he is out the door and hopefully gone from Maka's life for good.

With heaving breaths from her outburst and her hands still clenched into fists, she manages to let out most of her anger and carry on with stiffly filing away the order forms, sending the message that everyone in the bookstore should continue with their shopping. She knows Marie had to have heard some of the commotion but as the honey blonde has never liked Noah, she is hoping nothing will be said of this little incident. After all, he had it coming, right?

"Nicely handled. I didn't even need to do anything, by the looks of things."

She tenses and looks up, remembering for the first time the person who had come to her aid. She blinks a few times when her eyes catch him, holding a book in his hands rather hesitantly. Although his exterior is cool and unruffled at her explosive attack, his movements show that he is wary to try and purchase the book lest she wrench it from his hands and beat out his brains with it.

"Thank you for that," she says with her best efforts at calm, forcing on a smile and breathing out to show him the danger has momentarily passed. "He's been bugging me for months. Just that one today?"

"Thanks," he confirms, taking care not to let her skin touch his as he hands it over.

Surely she couldn't have scared him that much, right? Granted, she has earned the nickname 'Angel of Death' by a few of her old classmates for her inability to tolerate the pigheadedness of men, but that particular encounter hadn't even warranted a Maka Chop. She tries to discreetly eye the man as she processes his purchase. His hands are now firmly in his jacket pockets again and he is not looking directly at her, rather at a poster over her shoulder. It seems as if he is extremely uncomfortable making contact with her at all, and she feels slightly insulted. After all, she may hold wrath in her otherwise small body, but she isn't so hideous as to trigger such obvious attempts at avoidance, is she?

Then again, compared to him she may be. He is taller than her by about half a head, and his skin is that perfect shade of tan she likes – enough to be present, but not the six-pack, Jersey Shore ostentatious tone. He's dressed casually in black jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket thrown almost carelessly over the top but it fits him well and gives him a good shape. His eyes are brown, but they hold some sort of light in them whenever he turns to an angle facing the sun, catching the rays in a way that is almost unnatural. His hair is artfully messy, with a fringe coming partly over his face and spikes at the back as if he has gelled it, but it looks soft and unpolluted. It is also brown, a mundane shade. It does not seem like it fits him; perhaps he dyes it. She feels a streak of recognition, but it is quenched instantly. If she'd seen someone like him before, she'd remember it.

Maka notes all this with the same dull pang of envy she feels when confronted with attractive people. She bags his purchase – _The Messenger _by Markus Zusak – and pushes the bag across the counter before dropping the change into his palm rather than handing it to him. If he does not want to touch her, she will make it easy for him. He seems rather confused by her sudden hostility but still manages to give her a grin and a polite 'thanks' before leaving the store.

As he turns, she sees it. Just for a second, but it's there. His straight white teeth catch the gold of the four-thirty afternoon sun, and when the light glints off them, a flicker takes place before Maka's eyes. For the tiniest moment, she is looking at not straight flat rows, but neat serrated edges.

The door-chime sings in the sudden silence of her heart as it skips a beat, and her eyes are filled with not brown hair and grins, but _white _and lazy waves in the glow of a streetlamp.

In an instant, she feels the fear swallow her like a tide and she is a little girl, scared of the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I do not own Soul Eater. This chapter contains graphic descriptions, swearing, violence and sexual references._

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**This City Never Sleeps  
**Lisp.

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**Three**

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Marie does not question her silence as the rest of her shift rolls through, merely assuming it to be the residue of her anger at Noah. The two women continue their separate duties with little conversation, the older woman clearly trying to give her employee the space she thinks is needed. Maka hardly notices a thing. She counts change, processes orders and speaks to customers with as little mental presence possible. She is too busy thinking, trying to convince herself or talk herself down, but mostly, considering _what ifs._

_What if_ that man who had defended her is somehow the same one who had bored holes through her with his eyes underneath that streetlamp two nights ago? After all, the height and stature had seemed pretty similar when she'd seen him, and she _had_ had that stroke of recognition upon encountering him . . . But it can't be, can it? Because if that man is this man, that means he is either dyeing his hair and wearing fake teeth at night time, or he is something she has never come across before and might do better to avoid.

_Or_ she's crazy. That feels like a very possible option right now.

She's never liked not being able to understand things. It frustrates her; always has and always will. This puzzle is turning out to be particularly confusing, and embarrassingly chilling. There's always been a net of security around her when it comes to her night-time wanderings. She's always been the only one out there, and there's been nothing or nobody to fear. Not even the worst figures come out for extended periods of time during the night – not where she goes, anyway. A car on the road is not uncommon, but it will _always_ have its headlights on and _always_ park in a garage already secure inside a building. As stupid as it sounds, Death City is legitimately prepared for anything when it comes to the night. Nobody has to be outside where it can be helped, and it must always be helped. Everyone but her basically treats this as an unwritten law, and she would not be surprised if it became a law eventually.

So, with all that in mind, why would _he _be out there that late at night, and why would he be staring at her through a window so many stories higher than the street? Why would he wear a wig or dye his hair and wear fake teeth? Had he perhaps played a prank on her that night, if it was the same man she saw today?

No – that doesn't seem likely. Even if he's seen her walking around at night, she's never met him properly before. Playing a prank on Death City's streets at night to frighten a stranger is not worth it in anyone else's books.

The other possibility gives even more irrational answers. If this guy is truly something _other_, like her heart and stomach have been screaming at her for the last two days as her mind replays those seconds under the lamp's eerie yellow glow, then what purpose would he have coming into her store and defending her against Noah? He'd acted perfectly polite and normal, and she'd had no suspicions about him apart from his aloofness until the sunlight had glinted against his teeth.

The option of her insanity is starting to look like the best choice. Maka needs to shake this weird fear, and soon. She can convince herself that the white-haired stranger's apparition was a dream, if she gives herself long enough. She knows she can. The problem is that she _has_ to convince herself in the first place. Bravery is her strong point – it's what's got her through for so long when it comes to staying out past dark in the City.

She continues to throw these meditations around and does not notice the way the sun slowly creeps below the horizon to hide and watch until Marie is waving a hand in front of her face, halfway between laughing and exasperated.

"Are you listening, Maka?" she asks, clicking her fingers twice. "Earth to Maka!"

"Oh – sorry!" she exclaims with a jolt, nearly dropping the cookbook she holds on her foot. "I must have just . . . I must need sleep. Yeah, I'm sure that's it! What were you saying?" The nervous laugh which follows sounds horribly fake even to her ears.

Marie looks at her with a concerned, motherly air which is only added to by her swollen belly, leaving a somewhat nostalgic tang in her mouth. "Don't let guys like that bother you, okay? They'll cause nothing but pain."

"What?" she says hastily, whirling. Can her boss possibly know something . . . ?

"We can always have Noah banned from the store if he comes back, right? One customer less won't hurt – in fact, I think girls might come to the shop to get away from him," the woman says jokingly, putting a pin to the sudden ballooning of Maka's lungs.

She merely nods, catching on with more disappointment. "Anyway," Marie continues as she begins to head towards the back of the store, "it's time to close now. It's getting dark early and Frank is meant to be getting home before the usual time, so I'd like to have a nice dinner prepared for him."

Frank Stein holds the proud titles of Marie's husband, father to her child, Death City Police's official Division Coroner, and the creepiest human being in the west of the United States of America. Maka nods and reaches beneath the counter to get her phone and wallet. After double checking the lock is secure on the register and the store doors are secure, she follows her boss to the exit.

It is only once both women have gone partly down the street that she realises she has left her cardigan underneath the counter – her cardigan which coincidentally has the keys to her apartment in it.

"I'll just use the spare key and grab it," she tells Marie, waving away the honey-blonde's concerns at her having to go all the way back in and re-lock up the store. She's too preoccupied with her thoughts to consider otherwise, and getting the distance from Marie means she'll be able to silently think by herself. She doesn't have work or classes tomorrow, by some sort of miracle, so she would normally be walking out late tonight. If she has enough solitude to consider it, she may be able to convince herself that it is a safe and good idea.

Convince herself not to chicken out, more like.

She retrieves the cardigan with minimal issue using the spare key hidden behind the loose bronze plaque beside the back door. It is only once she has locked up again that she notices the slight breeze in the air, pricking her arms to goosebumps and making her lips quiver. Hastily, Maka throws on the cardigan. She remembers the harsh wind blowing against her that night but shoves the recollection away. If these frightening thoughts plague her now, there's no way she'll be able to be rid of them in time to go out tonight . . .

"You know, those oversized things only make you look smaller. You truly are small."

The voice reaches out through the air and stabs a sharp spike of fear into her heart, and she whirls to see the shoe emerge from the darkened alleyway, a pioneer for the rest of a person who instantly makes her feel like she should have had Marie accompany her after all. Anything to not be alone with _him_, right now, as the sky bruises more and the moon begins to take its place in the heavens. Adrenaline shoots into her, telling her to leave quickly, but he is suddenly in front of her and she feels dread weigh her feet to the footpath.

"So small," Noah purrs again, dropping a bottle of foul-smelling liquid behind him as he moves toward her. "Even in the chest. You've always been a flatty, Albarn – so much so that I can't understand why you have such high standards."

"Get out of my way, Noah," she says with a hard edge to her voice which would make any normal man back off. But he is cocky, drunk and determined, and he merely sneers at her.

"_And_ you're frigid as fuck. To think a chick more prickly than these fuckin' cactuses," he spits, gesturing to the desert land barely visible through gaps in the buildings across the road, "doesn't wanna' put out after all this time. I bet you're secretly some sorta' wild bitch in the bedroom, and you've been hiding your slutty side to try and look like some angel with a ten foot pole up her ass."

Maka wrinkles her nose in disgust at the sexual allusions he makes. _Men_, she thinks, and the word is so venomous in her mind that she would not be surprised if the acid became real and burnt at her brain. "Don't call me things like that, you pathetic creep. Maybe you wouldn't have to sleep around so much and have a Collection if you could _keep_ a girl. I'm not interested in you, like I said – now get the _Hell_ away from me."

"Big words from a little bitch," he snarls, and then there are arms around her wrists and she is being pushed against the alley wall. The hands feel small, cold and clammy.

"How dare you talk to Lord Noah like that," comes the deadly, somewhat high and cold voice she is dreading and expecting. Gopher, Noah's most loyal, rat-like lackey, hisses at her as he shoves her into the wall for emphasis. She kicks out a leg to retaliate, but suddenly Noah is there as well, pushing her face into the bricks as he chuckles loudly in her ear.

She feels her blood start to race and fear build higher in her stomach like a bursting water valve as one of the man's hands drifts down to the small of her back, his breath against her ear hot and strongly alcoholic. "We coulda' done this the easy way, but you didn't want that, did you? No, you wanted it _rough_. Now you're gonna' get it rough."

She hisses and before either of her assailants can react, shoots her elbow out. It catches Gopher in the collarbone and he loses his hold on her, snarling out a curse. Noah sticks his foot out to trip her, but she jumps it and kicks him in the stomach in one fluid movement. As Gopher rushes at her again, she snaps a fist into his jaw and stomach in quick succession, and he doubles over wheezing. Her leg comes back to kick the little ratty bastard in the family jewels, but Noah has recovered and grabs her ankle, making her fall on her face as he holds her legs off the ground. Her skirt comes up and she gasps in mortified rage, squirming to get out of his grip.

Maka can hear Gopher hacking as he comes closer, standing on her outstretched arm with a sudden and brutal force she is not prepared for. She shrieks and Noah uses the distraction to throw her into the wall. She coughs and he plants his foot on her chest, grinning maniacally as he squeezes the air from her lungs. She gasps, but Gopher is standing on both hands now and she can't get free.

She can't overpower him. Her vision is becoming riddled with black spots due to lack of breath. _She can't get away. _He's going to . . . Her heart is hammering and her consciousness is slipping away. _He's going to . . . _

Her blurry eyes lock onto the sky. It's dark now, the sun finally falling to rest. The night is over Death City, and the darkness is starting to wash away colour. Such a beautiful moon . . .

"Welcome to the Collection, Albarn," Noah sneers as he leans down to her eye level . . .

And keeps going as his entire face and shoulders smash into the bricks with a sickening thud. Maka stares, her heartbeat pounding in her head, in absolute bewilderment. What is happening? As she watches, he is suddenly thrown back against the other side of the alleyway, his legs flailing as he hits the ground _hard_. He groans and Maka sees some sort of flash of white above him, something _there_ but moving too fast for her hazy brain to see, and then he's lying in the middle of the alley gasping for breath, his head near her foot. She kicks at it and takes the opportunity to try and stand, wobbling slightly as the fear in her heart triples. What is happening?

"Lord Noah!" Gopher cries. She has almost forgotten his presence. "You bitch," he roars as he turns on her. "What did you d – _GYAH!"_

To her bewilderment and horror, he is suddenly being held in the air by his throat. His feet dangle and kick uselessly as he reaches up to the slightly, perfectly tanned hand crushing his windpipe. Any strength Maka may have gained flees and she slumps to her knees, eyes wide.

White hair. Sharp, shark teeth. _Burning_ eyes, a vibrant shade of red that flames and glows as she stares at them. Gopher squeals and squeaks for his master uselessly as he is choked, the man showing no signs of relenting as he furiously grips him. She tries to tell the newcomer to stop before Gopher is killed, but words won't leave her lips.

He's _real_.

His hair shines ethereally in the moonlight, his black jacket and black jeans making it stand out all the more. The ten dollar note of change she'd handed him not four hours ago protrudes slightly from his pocket, his shirt riding up slightly as he lifts Gopher's now weak body higher. His teeth grind as he watches the poor man's face turn purple.

"N-N-_Noah!_" the black-haired lackey whimpers. "_Help me!"_

Maka turns. Noah is no longer sprawled in the alleyway – or even still in it. He has fled, somehow getting away silently regardless of his injuries. Gopher is alone in this, and he seems to notice at the same point, tipping back his head and letting out a rasping, silent scream.

Just as it seems he is about to pass out for good, the white-haired man lets out a snarl and throws him, _hard_. He smacks against the same spot where Noah had been before, knocked unconscious immediately. His breathing sounds shallow and laboured, but he is alive. Somehow.

Maka's head snaps up, her pigtails flying against her shoulders, to stare at her saviour. She feels cold all over, and not because of the wind, which has stopped altogether. It feels like everything has stopped altogether, including time, as the man starts to walk towards her, taking slow and heavy steps.

No. This is not a man. She takes one more look and immediately it falls into place in her brain.

_Demon_.

The stories are true.

"_There's something living in it, Maka."_

He approaches, crouching down in front of her with that same terrifying slowness as her heart begins to scream and her hands begin to shake.

"_The dark moves."_

One hand reaches out, and she can't help but notice the thin length of his fingers. Beautiful hands, hands that look like they can create symphonies or masterpieces. Artworks out of the blood on the cobblestones.

"_There are things out there, scary things."_

She should have listened. His eyes are piercing, intense, as he stares directly into hers with some sort of emotion that makes her heart stop and her already trembling hands clench.

His skin feels warm against hers as one hand presses against the side of her face, turning it. Her neck becomes exposed, the pulse hammering under the delicate pale skin echoing loudly in the silence of stopped time, and she knows that her death is about to befall her. She can't even close her eyes, instead continuing to look into those beautifully deadly eyes and feel those beautifully crafted, monstrously powerful hands as he begins to lean over her, closer, closer, gaze narrowing . . .

"Damn, that's some knock on the head you got there," he says, that same contrastingly rough and smooth voice expressing an air of concern. "You know it's bleeding, right? Looks like you did need my help after all."

And in that moment, Maka Albarn does the one thing she promised after reading about damsels in distress as a child that she'd never, _ever_ do.

She faints.

The demon, Soul 'Eater' Evans, takes one look at the suddenly slumped female figure in his arms and groans.

"_Ah, shit."_


End file.
